Battlecruiser Alamo: Spell of the Stars

by Richard Tongue

   It had been strange enough coming back to this ship over more than two years away to begin with, but before he'd had Caine as a point of familiarity, someone he could talk too, bounce ideas of. Someone that he knew at the deepest possible level that he could trust. Now he was surrounded by strangers, people he barely knew. With fellow officers all around him, he'd never felt so alone in his life.

   Then there was the magnitude of the situation they had found themselves caught in. Millions of light-years from home, on the far side of an alien galaxy, with no way to return to the Confederation other than a desperate hope conjured out of the ruins of a long-dead city, buried in the sands of Dante. And Waldheim out there, hunting them down, a ship that could blot them out of existence with a single pulse of its laser cannon. If ever he needed Caine's counsel, the time was now.

   “Sixty seconds to emergence, Captain,” Quesada said, flashing a confident smile.

   “All decks are cleared for action, sir,” the coolly competent Scott added. “Missiles in the tubes, and laser cannon charging sequence ready. Do I deploy our radiations when we return to normal space, sir?”

   “Do it, Sub-Lieutenant,” he replied. “No point taking any chances.”

   Frowning, Francis said, “That could be considered as a hostile act, sir, and if there are friendly inhabitants in this system...”

   “Then we'll talk our way out of it when we meet them, but I'm far more concerned about a sneak attack right now, Lieutenant.” Turning to Salazar, he added, “Pavel, get down to the hangar deck. I want you in one of the fighters.”

   “Sir?”

   “Take McCormack's place in the squadron, and have her report to the emergency bridge to coordinate the action from there. I need someone I can trust to lead my birds into battle, Lieutenant, and that person is you.”

   “Captain, I'm confident that Senior Lieutenant Mc...”

   “You might be,” Marshall interrupted, “but I'm not, and I don't intend to take any chances today. On the double, Lieutenant, and I want the squadron on ninety seconds' notice to scramble upon emergence.”

   “Aye, sir,” Salazar said, heading to the elevator with a last doubtful glance at Harper, sitting in her usual position at the Defense Systems station.

   Francis walked over to Marshall, the frown still on his face, and said, “Sir, might I suggest that you contact Senior Lieutenant McCormack yourself, and explain the change to normal routine?”

   “Pavel can handle it.”

   “She's his senior in rank, sir...”

   “And that's about all. I'm thinking of making a permanent switch, now that we've got a few more junior officers available. Certainly Pavel can handle Second Officer and Flight Officer more easily than doubling up with Security Officer, and Lieutenant Foster can handle that position.”

   His voice low, Francis replied, “I must register my protest to this course of action, sir. If we are proceeding into a hostile situation, then you've just sent your second-in-command off the ship. Senior Lieutenant McCormack might...”

   “Lieutenant, I will hear no more of this. My orders stand.” Glancing at the elevator, he continued, “We're on the knife-edge, Max, and we both know it. Lieutenant Salazar is the best pilot I've ever seen, the only Triple-Ace in Triplanetary service, and it makes no sense at all to have him loitering on the bridge when he ought to be leading his pilots into battle. With limited resources, we can't afford to waste what we have. And this is the last time that I intend to explain my orders. Is that understood?”

   “Of course, sir,” Francis replied. “My apologies, Captain.”

   As Francis returned to his place by the helm, Marshall glanced back at the elevator, wondering if he was doing the right thing. McCormack was a good pilot, a good administrator, but she was far too reckless, desperate to get the fifth kill that would make her an Ace. When it came to it, he didn't trust her to think of the safety of her pilots first, and this far away from home, they couldn't afford to lose anyone. Salazar was a safe pair of hands, and that was something he desperately needed. Especially now.

   “Ten seconds, sir,” Quesada said.

   “Very good, Sub-Lieutenant. You have the call.”

   “Aye, sir,” he replied. “I have the call.”

   With the familiar flash of Cerenkov blue, Alamo returned to normal space, and the stars flickered onto the viewscreen once more. The image was dominated by the corona of a golden star on one side as Alamo dived through the rip in reality, emerging in the new system. The tactical display flickered into life as information flooded into the sensors, rapidly building up a picture of the local area, planets and moons appearing on the display as the computers completed their projections of their orbits.

   “Threat warning! Close aboard!” Ballard, the sensor technician reported. “Six United Nations fighters, fifty thousand miles away, chasing another craft of unknown design. Identification codes match Waldheim, sir.” She paused, then added, “And I've got Waldheim herself now, sir, orbiting the habitable planet in the system.”

   “Any signals, Bowman?”

   “Big spike in activity, sir,” the communications technician reported, “but nothing directed at us.” He paused, then added, “Not all of it is in United Nations code, sir. Must be local traffic.”

   “Helm, I want an intercept course to engage those fighters. We've caught them away from the nest, and we might as well take a chance to reduce Waldheim's firepower a little. Ballard, look for their tanker shuttle. This far from the mothership, they must be operating with support, and I'd like a clean sweep. And I want all the data you can gather on that other ship. Bowman, try and hail them.”

   “They're hailing us, sir,” Bowman replied, turning from his station. “Normal radio, no scrambler, voice only. Pretty old-fashioned stuff.”

   “Nothing like the classics, Spaceman,” Marshall said. “Put him on. And Quesada, go for maximum acceleration. This time I want to catch those bastards before they can get away.”

   “This is the scoutship Gagarin calling unidentified spacecraft,” a thin voice said, fighting through the crackle. “I am requesting assistance.”

   “Gagarin, this is Fleet Captain Daniel Marshall the Triplanetary Battlecruiser Alamo. We are moving to engage the United Nations fighters. Can you hold out for five minutes while we close the range?”

   “I think so. Are you equipped to receive tactical data?”

   “We are indeed. I'll patch you though to Lieutenant-Ca...” he paused, then corrected himself. “To Sub-Lieutenant Scott, for tactical co-ordination. Hang on for just a little longer, Gagarin. The cavalry's on the way. Alamo out.”

   “That's odd,” Francis said. “They're keeping on the tail of Gagarin. I'd have expected the fighters to either retreat to their tanker shuttle or move into an attack run on us.” Turning to Marshall, he added, “I guess they must be anxious to bring that ship down. Enough that they'd throw away a good part of their fighter force to do it.”

   “We can worry about the details later, Lieutenant,” Marshall replied. “Time to intercept, Quesada?”

   “Four minutes, thirty-three seconds, sir,” the helmsman replied.

   “Still no change to target aspect,” Ballard said. “Enemy fighters are holding course. Unless something changes, they'll reach Gagarin before we can open fire.”

   Tapping a control on the arm of his chair, Marshall said, “Salazar, immediate launch. Intercept and engage enemy fighter formation. Alamo will provide support. Good hunting.”

   “Understood, Alamo,” Salazar replied. “Fighter Leader to all Fighters. Scramble.”

   Seven dots appeared on the tactical display, Alamo's fighter squadron racing towards the enemy, trajectory plots snapping into position. Salazar was taking them out in textbook formation, a double arrowhead with his fighter in the center, ready to fill in gaps. He glanced back at Harper, who was watching the screen.

   “Relax, Lie
utenant. He knows what he's doing,” he said.

   Turning to him, she replied, “Aye, sir.” She glanced at him for a second before returning to her station. Someone else he hardly recognized, the wild-haired hacker from his first tour on Alamo transformed into a seasoned officer, a key member of the command staff, and a former ship captain in her own right. There were times it felt as though he had been left behind while the rest of the crew had moved on.

   “Cannon ready, sir,” Scott said. “Rules of engagement?”

   “Fire offensively, Sub-Lieutenant, and at your discretion. I want those bastards knocked out of my sky in short order.”

   “Very good, sir,” she replied. “Firing range in three minutes, thirty seconds. All hands are ready for action, all blast doors sealed.”

   “Damage control teams on standby, sir,” Fitzroy said from the engineering station.

   Nodding, Marshall turned back to the screen, watching as the two fighter formations closed on each other. Belatedly, the enemy commander had opted to move to a defensive posture, but he'd left it late, and Salazar was taking full advantage of his sluggish actions to press home his attack, nursing his inexperienced pilots into position.

   Marshall could still picture himself out there, leading the squadron into battle as he had done in the War, almost two decades before. A part of him still longed to return to the simplicity of a cockpit, responsible only for himself and his personal survival, or that of a handful of pilots. Not the crushing weight he found himself bearing now. An easier time.

   “Change to target aspect from Waldheim, sir,” Ballard said. “I don't understand it, though.”

   “Details, Spaceman.”

   “They're changing their orbit, but not for an escape vector. I think they're heading towards the planet, right down to minimum altitude.” She paused, then added, “I'm also picking up something in the atmosphere, the pattern of a recent re-entry plume. Maybe an escape pod.”

   Francis walked over, looked at the screen, and added, “Definitely a civilization down there, sir. I'm picking up at least one major settlement, and there's some electromagnetic activity. If I was to guess, sir, I'd say that Waldheim has taken the planet.”

   “One ship?”

   “There's not much in the way of orbital infrastructure,” Ballard said, “but I am picking up debris in a stationary orbit. Could be the remains of a space station.”

   “A lost colony,” Quesada mused. “Looks like not everyone managed to find a way home.”

   “Fighter contact in sixty seconds,” Scott said. “We're ninety behind them.”

   The elevator doors opened, and a red-faced McCormack burst onto the bridge, saying, “I need to speak to you, Captain.”

   “Not now, Lieutenant.”

   Anger still surging in her eyes, she thrust a datapad at him, then turned and stormed back into the elevator without waiting for a response. Marshall scanned down the hastily-written note, shook his head, and slid it into his pocket.

   “What is it, Captain?” Francis asked.

   “Our squadron leader just resigned her commission,” he said with a sigh. “We'll deal with that after the battle. Any word from Salazar?”

   “In formation and preparing to press his attack. He'll be firing defensively to deplete their missiles,” Scott replied. Glancing up at her console, she added, “Contact in ten seconds, sir.”

   Marshall and the bridge crew had front-row seats for the action. The screen was briefly a jumbled tangle of trajectory plots as twenty-four missiles raced into the sky, Salazar's formation swung around in a graceful arc once they had released their payloads, only the lead pilot remaining on the intercept course, facing the enemy alone, guiding the combined salvo onto the target.

   “Pull out, Pavel,” Marshall muttered. “Pull out.”

   At the last second, Salazar spun his craft around, releasing his two missiles to join the melee. A cascade of explosions rippled across the screen, and when the images faded, only Salazar's salvo remained, heading towards two of the enemy fighters. A pair of explosions wiped their targets from the display, and the survivors turned once again, this time heading further away from Alamo, paralleling Gagarin's flight path.

   “Where are they going?” Scott asked.

   “More speed, Quesada,” Marshall ordered. “We've got to get them. Ballard, any sign of the tanker shuttle?”

   “No, sir, but there are a lot of sensor dead spots out there.” She gestured at the screen, then added, “We're close to the inner asteroid cluster. I've never seen a field so dense. Plenty of places for someone to hide.” She turned, then added, “They daren't go too deep, though. Not unless they've got a lot more fuel than my readings suggest.”

   “Closing on target,” Quesada replied. “Thirty seconds to range.”

   “Signal the fighters,” Marshall ordered. “Offer them a chance to surrender.”

   “No reply, sir,” Bowman said, working his controls.

   The end was inevitable as Alamo dived into position, the laser cannon catching the leading fighter dead-on, ripping it into flaming fragments, while the first salvo of missiles raced towards its targets, wiping them from the sky. Marshall sat back in his chair, then turned to Ballard.

   “Get me Gagarin again, Spaceman.”

   “He's already calling you, Captain.”

   Sliding on a headset, Marshall said, “Now that we've cleared up our mutual problem, perhaps we could find some time to talk in a little more detail.”

   There was a brief pause, and the man replied, “You'll have to understand that trust isn't going to come quickly, Captain. For all I know, those were some sort of drone, and this is a trap. Nevertheless, I suppose I don't have much choice, do I?”

   “Probably not. Where were those fighters going?”

   “They were chasing me, Captain. We have a hidden installation, deep in the Inner Belt. It had been intended as a base for asteroid exploitation, until Waldheim arrived.” He sighed, then added, “Now it is the last outpost of freedom in this system.”

   “Why haven't they taken it?”

   “As I said, it's deep in the belt, in the middle of a cluster of a hundred thousand asteroid fragments. We picked it because of its proximity to easily-accessible minerals, but you'd never be able to find your way through the maze without a guide. Or a few years to study the trajectories. This isn't the first time they've tried to snatch one of our ships, but they've never come this close.”

   “Then I presume bringing Alamo in is not an option.” He paused, then added, “Nor do I feel inclined to speak openly, even on a secure channel. We've got no way of knowing who might be listening.” Tapping a control, he said, “Marshall to Salazar.”

   “I'm on the line, sir.”

   “Dock with Gagarin, transfer across, then switch your fighter to remote operation. I want you to go to this base as my representative and liaison. See what you can find out about the current situation, and how we might be able to assist them. Alamo will stand off at range until you return.”

   “Understood, sir,” Salazar replied.

   “Is that suitable to you, Gagarin?”

   “Certainly, Captain. And my name is Dmitri Fedorov.”

   “A pleasure to meet you, Dmitri. Let's hope all our fights go this well.”

   “Captain,” Francis said, as the channel snapped closed. “Do you think it is a good idea to send Lieutenant Salazar alone into the lion's den? We could launch a shuttle with an Espatier team to accompany him, maybe gather some additional intelligence.”

   “Blind chance may have found us the only allies we might find in this system, Lieutenant, and I think we're going to have to show a little faith if we're going to make any progress with them. I can certainly understand why they might be unwilling to trust strangers at present.” Looking across at Harper, he continued, “I want a full survey of the system, and a complete strategic report in one hou
r. There's an enemy warship less than a day's flight from here, and I want to find a way to bring it down.”

   “We're going to attack, then?” Scott asked.

   “Better that than wait for the knife in our back, Sub-Lieutenant. We've got a chance to end this chase here and now, and I intend to take it.”

  Chapter 5

   With a loud report, the two ships locked together, and Salazar struggled through the cramped lower airlock into Gagarin, a descent that felt as though he was stepping back in time more than a century, to the earliest days of interplanetary spaceflight. Everything was bulky, over-engineered, primitive dials and gauges filling the cramped cabin, a pair of couches facing forward to a master control panel. Kicking free from his seat, Fedorov rose, and held out his hand in greeting.

   Shaking the proffered hand, Salazar said, “I've deactivated my fighter's sensors, in accordance with our agreement. You can check them out for yourself if you want. Alamo's moving into a blind spot, so they can't monitor us either.”

   “You're giving me a lot of trust, Lieutenant. It would be churlish to question it too closely. Have you served as your commander's hostage before?”

   “On occasion,” he replied. “You'd be surprised what I've had to do in the service of the Confederation in the past.” Sliding into the vacant couch, he asked, “What are you hauling?”

   “Ice,” Fedorov answered, taking the pilot's seat. “Enough to last us for a couple of months. The asteroid we selected for a base is mineral-rich, but has no deposits of its own. The one element we weren't self-sufficient in.” He paused, then added, “Not that we can last for long.”

   As the engines fired with a dull roar, Salazar said, “Then this wasn't intended for long-term occupancy?”

   “Quite the reverse, we'd hoped to use it for fifty years. The first major step in our colonization of the system. We might have a small population, Lieutenant, but we're growing fast, and we wanted to make use of the last of our inherited resources while we could. This ship dates back to the original settlement, though we were working on the construction of a new generation of spacecraft.” With a sigh, he added, “Our orbital station was destroyed in the first moments of the attack. Ten years it took to build. I suspect we can replace it more rapidly, but a lot of labor and love went into its construction.”